


ensnared

by wyverning



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Canon Compliant, Laurent POV, Laurent slowly falling for Damen, M/M, Prince's Gambit, a deadly case of catching feelings, intense observation of damen's Features, laurent overthinking everything like always, laurent staring at damen is basically just extended foreplay, poorly disguised mutual pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 18:17:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17146679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyverning/pseuds/wyverning
Summary: Laurent excels in the subtle.It’s why he’s so taken aback when Damianos manages, over the span of just a few months, to burrow so efficiently under his skin. He’s carved out a space there, among the veins and muscle and alabaster bone, claiming it as his own like he belongs. Perhaps the worst part of it all is that it happened so subtly Laurent himself has been played the fool.





	ensnared

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KaijuusAndKryptids](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaijuusAndKryptids/gifts).



> Happy holidays to you, KaijuusAndKryptids! I hope you are having the loveliest of holidays, and enjoy some canon-compliant Laurent falling in love as your Captive Prince 2018 Secret Santa gift. ♥

Laurent excels in the subtle.

It’s an ability finely honed by necessity. The courtiers of Arles have never spared him an ounce of quarter, and outright manipulation is as ridiculed as it is uncouth. He’s become a master of the court’s games over the years, nudging those around him into directions favorable to himself without their outright notice. A shy, reserved smile here and the whisper of a suggestion there, and they’ve tripped over themselves to please him. They are, after all, aware of what he will become someday.

If only it were that easy.

His uncle’s court, in particular, requires finesse on even the best of days, but Laurent hasn’t managed to maintain their stalemate for so long by mere accident.

He requires no attention drawn to his perceptiveness. To admit to how easy it is to predict the actions of others would do nothing but alienate him further from a home that has already turned against him. Yet, regardless of whether those around him are aware, the fact remains: Laurent excels in the subtle.

It’s why he’s so taken aback when Damianos manages, over the span of just a few months, to burrow so efficiently under his skin. He’s carved out a space there, among the veins and muscle and alabaster bone, claiming it as his own like he belongs. Perhaps the worst part of it all is that it happened so subtly Laurent himself has been played the fool.

Auguste would be appalled.

 

* * *

 

Damianos demands to go along with Laurent’s patrol with all the attitude of royalty expecting to be obeyed instantaneously.

How anyone expected him to pass as an actual slave is beyond Laurent, though he finds himself mulling over the idea after it is presented. He’s a factor that Laurent hadn’t truly considered, as everything fell under his uncle’s machinations so quickly: the drugging, the attempted murder, Damiano’s unexpected allyship.

Laurent doesn’t trust him. He’s fighting a private war on all fronts, after all, and surely Damianos yearns to eliminate him just as his uncle does, especially after what has happened to him.

Except —

Except there was no need for Damianos to protect him against their assailants. _They_ certainly hadn’t expected resistance on his part, and it had cost them their lives. Laurent isn’t quite so naive, but the threat remains ever-present, humming just beneath his skin with all the awareness of how deftly the man had killed.

The image rests behind his eyelids, haunting him like some sort of spectre.

It doesn’t make sense, not with Damianos’ back still healing from the whip. He hates Laurent as surely as Laurent loathes him, but his actions have belied the cold glint of animosity that reflects in his eyes.

It’s an interesting juxtaposition, Laurent will admit. His remaining family bears Laurent such ill will as to actively try to murder him, yet that same contempt coming from another has somehow become his only ally.

The barbarian’s plea to accompany him is borne only out of the desperation of a man who knows it is his only respite from a sure death, Laurent assures himself. When they march, they march together, and Laurent beats back the tiny ounce of warmth settling in his breast at the thought that, until Damianos inevitably makes his escape back to Akielos, he’s not quite so alone.

 

* * *

 

Their company is a hive of frustration, and Laurent’s skin crawls with the intimate knowledge of how untrained and vile they truly are. It’s certainly not the first he’s heard of what his men would do to him given half the chance, but constant immersion in their foul language and intent could wear down even the strongest of men. Not that any of them will ever be able to tell, with the mask Laurent’s perfected over the years. To them, he is impervious to any identifiable mark of irritation.

There are many ways to squash their already-budding insubordination, but each strategy carries with it several drawbacks, and he’s preoccupied with the myriad of thoughts assaulting his mind when he makes his way back to his chambers.

Damianos is there waiting, glancing noticeably at the cutlery left on the table.

All at once, Laurent finds his temper flaring. The few words they exchange upon Laurent’s entrance feel minuscule beneath any potential for scheming.

It is with calm surety that he wraps fingers around the knife and delivers it into Damianos’ grasp. “I am not going to waste time on posturing and threats,” says Laurent, tightening his grip around Damianos’ wrist as he angles the knife into the softness of his own belly. “Why don’t we clear up any uncertainty about your intentions?”

Prior experience has taught him Damianos will not harm him, yet a frisson of energy still races through him at the thought of danger.

The air between them is thick, Damianos looking at him consideringly. His grip on the knife doesn’t waver, but neither does it sink any further into the dark blue of Laurent’s vest.

Still, the idiot tries to give him a way out: “I’m sure there are house servants still awake. How do I know you won’t scream?”

“Do I seem like the type to scream?”

An eternity passes between them. “I’m not going to use the knife,” Damianos says finally, and Laurent feels — something. Not disappointment, but not satisfaction, either.

It is one thing to cycle through the countless probabilities of an encounter, and another to live through the experience, and a bit of the tension in Laurent’s shoulders eases as Damianos retreats with the knife.

Their attentions turn toward geography, then, and the feeling is easily forgotten under the mounting pressure of Laurent’s more immediate concerns.

 

* * *

 

Assigning Damianos the servant’s job of attending to him ranks as one of Laurent’s biggest miscalculations, yet he has committed too far to pull back.

Damianos really does try for professionalism, which is why it’s almost a shame how ludicrously he fails at the attempt.

It was a command meant to humiliate: to remind the Akielon beast that he is Laurent’s to do with as he pleases, whether it involves commanding him to lay his life down or take over menial, degrading tasks.

Instead of the achieved result, though...

Every moment that Damianos spends undressing Laurent is unbearably torturous.

At the very least, Laurent draws wry amusement from how utterly awful Damianos is at untangling common Veretian knots, but that is the only victory he stands to gain from this. It had been a true feat of strength to stand entirely still as the brute undressed him for the first time, all of his muscles held taut with the tension of previous memories, but they had both survived it.

Now, in the guise of habit and familiarity, Laurent finds his thoughts drifting as Damianos sets about removing his outer jacket. It would be manageable if his mind conjured up solutions to the never-ending plethora of problems Laurent has acquired, but regrettably, he appears only to be capable of considering the man in front of him during these times.

It is only during these moments, where he demands Damianos attend him, that Laurent commits his body to memory with more efficiency than could ever be considered reasonable.

His unerring focus as he wrestles with the laces of Laurent’s clothing provides the perfect opportunity for Laurent to observe his slave unnoticed, and they’re so close that he could count each eyelash that fans against Damianos’ cheeks.

The dim candlelight grants him the illusion of calm, though he can feel his face flushing beneath Damianos’ ministrations. He’s slowly begun to improve unknotting some less complicated laces found at the base of Laurent’s clothing, but he struggles with the complex ones at his wrists and throat.

Fingers brush against his cheekbone as Damianos tries, clumsily, to yank at a string caught between folds of rich cloth. His brow furrows in annoyance, and Laurent rather fears he’s about to pull the knot into pieces instead of untying it. Damianos purses his lips as though overcome with a new motivation, and Laurent’s eyes are drawn to them.

It’s foolish.

He could command it, surely. Demand Damianos rise and press those too-full lips against his own; the heat held so often in the Akielon’s gaze indicates that it wouldn’t be a hardship at all to do so.

It is a moment of true weakness that catches him fantasizing the act: how Damianos would slide one hand into his hair as he turned Laurent’s face toward his, the way he would distract himself from the frustration of the tangled knots by pressing into the kiss...

But there is far too much at stake for Laurent to waste time with trivial matters such as the impulses of his body.

“That’s enough,” says Laurent, slicing through the moment while refusing to acknowledge how soft his voice has gone.

Damianos doesn’t respond verbally, but with how expressive his features are, and how the look in his eyes practically pleads, _Is it?_ the words themselves aren’t truly needed.

 

* * *

 

Damianos would not last a single day in a position of power if he were born in Vere.

He offers earnest advice about geography, battle plans, and the methodology of Akielon forces. It’s almost disgusting, Laurent thinks, how he doesn’t even bother to conceal more sensitive knowledge from an enemy that will undoubtedly use it against him someday.

No, he truly appears to be _helping_ Laurent. Any explanation to his behavior that Laurent tries to rationalize brings up more questions than answers, and it’s a frustrating loop to catch his thoughts running in.

Damianos is also disturbingly adept at providing answers that are useful. They’re not empty, low strategies that Laurent has already considered and dispensed with, but rather they employ Akielon methods that will jar his uncle from the comfortable seat of power he’s settled in.

Laurent is bewildered by it, and on more than one occasion has caught himself slipping around Damianos as they plan strategy. Wresting his features into a convincing mask of neutrality takes far more effort than it should. He hasn’t even been away from Arles for a fortnight — he can’t afford to slip up, now or ever.

 

* * *

 

“You’re tense today,” Damianos says, overstepping all the bounds a slave would never.

“Today?” asks Laurent lightly, despite the pounding in his skull.

It has been a day of frustrations. Govart and his infuriating band of mercenaries have proved to be utterly disorganized, not that Laurent expected anything truly admirable from the lot of them. They’re rowdy, idiotic, and childish, supplied with far more drink than any man other than the Regent would have provided a supposed Prince’s Guard. Between his captain’s distraction with Aimeric and the incompetence of the mercenaries he’s been tasked with, all Laurent has gained over the course of the day has been an utterly nasty headache.

Damianos approaches until they’re an arm’s breadth apart, and Laurent looks up at him, genuinely curious about what ridiculous thing he will say next. This close, Damianos’ skin smells faintly of something medicinal. He must have seen Paschal for his back before arriving at Laurent’s chambers.

Laurent refuses to feel guilt about his actions. They seem not to have done much harm, anyway, if Damianos is still with him and feels confident enough to comment on the state of Laurent’s body.

“Can I help?”

He bites back the scathing response that instinctively forms at the tip of his tongue. It is just the two of them, alone, and he has already failed in trying to conceal his poor mood.

Laurent cannot immediately tell who is the larger fool: the one offering to assist a man who beat him nearly to death, or the one considering accepting such assistance from his brother’s killer.

He considers the offer. “I suppose you could read to me, if that isn’t asking too much of a barbarian.”

“In Akielon or Veretian? I hope my accent won’t offend.” The words are playful, tinged with an exaggerated emphasis on all the wrong consonants.

Laurent is resolutely _not_ smiling in return. “I tire of reading atrociously-written reports from our men. The book over there,” and he gestures with an idle hand toward a Veretian novel resting near his bed.

“Of course, your highness.”

 

* * *

 

Laurent watches as Damianos spars with his men.

It’s purely for research purposes — rare is the opportunity that he gets to observe Akielon fighting at its finest. It’s a stark reminder of who Damianos is, with his brute strength and prowess on a field that toppled even the strongest Vere had to offer.

It’s rather warm today, as summer approaches its peak, and Laurent indulges in undoing a few of the tighter laces around his arms to let a breeze pass through. He commands a nearby servant to fetch him some water, and Damianos looks up, then, at the sound of his voice. It’s almost amusing, how quickly his slave responds to his presence.

His shift in attention would be a fatal move in any other circumstance.

Jord takes advantage of Damianos’ moment of distraction, executing a well-maneuvered swing that slams the broad side of his sword against his opponent’s sternum. Damianos winces from the pain of what will surely become a bruise, though the daze in his eyes seems a touch overly-dramatic given the mild nature of his injury.

Laurent turns his attention to other aspects of their constructed camp, though the prickling at the back of his neck informs him that Damianos is likely not doing the same.

 

* * *

 

Respect between them is as precarious as the fledgling sparks striving to ignite kindling, but it manages carries a flame until warmth spreads between them.

Laurent comes to know Damianos as his men do, and the strain of merging the image of a man he’s spent his life loathing with the honest slave that sleeps in the same space as him nightly grows more bearable with each passing day.

He will never fully trust the other, not with the knowledge that Damianos yearns to return to his own country and rule as a king instead of as a slave by another king’s side, but Laurent has grown up in a den of enemies, and is no stranger to being used as a means to an end. He has no choice but to hold onto whatever allies he has acquired until they must part ways.

 

* * *

 

The night of the inn, an unfamiliar feeling bubbles up in Laurent’s chest with increasing alarm.

It’s enjoyable, he finds with no small amount of surprise, to play a role so unlike the one he’s been assigned. Damianos is utterly flabbergasted, eyes darting to Laurent in frequent disbelief as they fall into the role of master and pet, and Laurent’s mirth at the spectacle is genuine.

Laurent can feel Damianos’ eyes on him all throughout the evening. If he were a lesser man, he might have preened at the attention. Certainly, that is what Damianos is used to: an intentioned, heavy gaze before his chosen consort for the evening falls apart under the attentions of royalty and the hands of a generous lover.

The reputation of both Akielon princes had been well-known even throughout Vere, and Laurent’s mood sours slightly as his thoughts turn toward the constant flow of lovers that Damianos had been known to take.

Across from him, Volo is far too drunk to notice the minuscule tightening of his mouth, and Laurent covers the action with a gaudy laugh even as he loses a hefty amount of gold in the next hand.

Damianos having _expectations_ simply will not do. Laurent will have to keep him on his toes.

He returns to Damianos richer in well-worn headwear, and gives in to a single impulse.

It’s worth it for the look of unbridled panic to swing one leg over the broad expanse of Damianos’ lap, despite the humiliation that burns hot in his veins as he settles in. Damianos doesn’t know what to do with himself, but Laurent has well-established his role by now, and shoots a pointed glance toward the untouched food on a nearby plate.

It truly is a pity that Laurent's the only one to see his slave’s shocked expression.

Laurent had expected it to feel demeaning to eat from Damianos’ fingers, but he finds himself emboldened by the hungry look in the other man’s eyes as he does so. The action itself is intimate, though Laurent tries his best to be as unaffected as possible as he nibbles on morsels of bread. Damianos seems torn even as he feeds Laurent, and the moment stretches between them for what feels like eternity.

Then Damianos shifts underneath him, and everything snaps back into reality with sharp, sobering clarity.

“Control yourself,” Laurent murmurs aloud, but truly it’s a reminder for himself as much as it is for the man caught between his thighs.

Damianos inhales a shaky breath, looking so entirely unsettled that Laurent has to work hard to control his expression as he suggests they head upstairs.

Laurent refuses to permit himself imaginings of how this night might end under other circumstances. They have a clear purpose for being here, and perhaps he is being _too_ successful at playing this game, but all’s for the better if it has convinced all curious eyes.

He does well to remind himself that this is all a deliberate act, though for one fleeting moment, he allows himself a small, genuine smile as Damianos leads them to their room.

 

* * *

 

Words between them gain increasing ease, and Laurent finds himself slipping. _My honorable barbarian_ sounds almost like an endearment, reminding him of nickname a lord might bestow upon their favorite pet. They’ve come so far from the barbed _sweetheart_ that Damianos had thrown at him upon their first meeting, but Laurent cannot find it within himself to complain.

 

* * *

 

Laurent travels through hell, pitfall after pitfall, with Damianos alongside him. At every step is a new challenge to overcome, and he’s kept constantly on-guard, tension never easing as threats approach them from every angle.

He’s not alone, though.

The subtle seduction of shifting from _I must_ to _We will_ settles into Laurent’s very being, until at last it slots itself into rightness. The risks seem almost insurmountable: this is more treacherous than riding a sabotaged horse through a boar hunt, more fatal than any poison could ever be. But as dangerous as letting himself believe that things may not end in disaster, the small fire of hope grows within him, and it is only now that Laurent realizes how pervasive Damianos’ presence has truly been.

Near his bedside, Damianos rests on a pallet. His shirt is weighted down, tugged so that the collar exposes his dark skin, and his features are lax with the freedom unburdened sleep brings. Even the most loose clothing cannot hide the strong, corded muscle that rests beneath his skin, or the aura with which he carries himself. It’s faded along with his consciousness, but remains ever-present: this is a powerful man, awake or not.

With no one around to bear witness to the act, Laurent drinks in the sight of him, eying his bared collarbone in the dim light and following the trail of hair that spans across his skin.

There is nothing subtle about this, Laurent knows, but perhaps, just this once, it’s acceptable.


End file.
